


Unwanted Attention

by fabricdragon



Series: Odyssey [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Cat and Mouse, Dark Mycroft, Lying to yourself, M/M, Music, Non-Graphic Violence, Physical Therapy, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Temptation, Threats, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, fooling yourself, jimcroft - Freeform, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9310640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Neither Sherlock nor Moriarty died that day at Reichenbach.  Mycroft saw an opportunity to protect his brother, and get Jim Moriarty safely out of the picture.  His own interests being satisfied? well a bonus, surely.But playing games with Jim Moriarty is never safe- for anyone.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



Mycroft watched the “games” between Sherlock and Moriarty with increasing unease.  He’d traded information about Sherlock to Moriarty that shouldn’t have been useful– just feeding his obsession– in order to follow his connections, find his buyers.

After all, he hadn’t given them anything under interrogation.

Mycroft found himself admiring that, but… at the time he thought it due merely to obsession.  Now, though… His brother had been brought into an increasingly difficult trap–even Mycroft had to admit it was brilliant.  The full weight of his office and contacts couldn’t untangle the damage easily: it would take time… and time was running out.

He had underestimated Jim Moriarty, because he had underestimated his brother.

He knew, intellectually, that his brother was a genius, he wasn’t stupid… but somehow, in his plans Sherlock was still his baby brother, who was so terribly less intelligent.  He’d made the mistake of letting that effect his perceptions again, including his perceptions of Moriarty.

His brother was planning to fake his death, reasoning that only his very public death, after his very public disgrace, would satisfy the man.  Mycroft, however, was concerned:  if Sherlock planned an out–faking his death and thence vanishing– who’s to say Moriarty hadn’t anticipated it?  He had anticipated everything else Sherlock had done.

What if that was his PLAN?

Get Sherlock to fake his death, at which point he could entrap him, lure him, hold him captive… The more Mycroft thought, the more it seemed sensible.  With Sherlock in disgrace, and dead, nothing would be able to stop Moriarty from kidnapping him.  The man was obsessed with Sherlock– he wanted him to join him; having failed to convince him, the next step was to force him.

Mycroft opened the door, just a crack, to the part of his nature that he usually kept firmly in check, and licked his lips.

Moriarty had recognized how much Mycroft wanted to hurt him… he just hadn’t recognized the danger of drawing Mycroft’s attention– because Mycroft would do ANYTHING to protect his baby brother, including getting far too close to Jim Moriarty.  It would be safer to just be certain that Jim Moriarty actually died…

Safer…

But less satisfying.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft’s agents retrieved the body from the roof before the police could get to it.  As he expected the bullet wound was faked, and the man had given himself a drug to slow his breathing and heart rate, just in case Sherlock checked. Mycroft’s men killed a few of Moriarty’s agents who were waiting to retrieve him– and captured some; the usual interrogators would peel answers out of them soon enough.

Jim Moriarty, however, was a different story.

Mycroft considered carefully.  He had a room that would suit.  If he was honest with himself he’d been preparing it for years, without admitting what he was doing, it would only need a few things to complete it.  The question, one must ask oneself, was this: would he be able to step back again?

Mycroft didn’t think so, but then… there was no reason not to, with him, was there?

It’s what Jim wanted to do to Sherlock, after all.

Burn the heart out of him, but to do that you had to set it on fire.

~

Jim had expected to wake up in the ambulance, or failing that in the safehouse Moran had arranged. When he woke up looking up at a ceiling that looked more like his usual homes, he wondered. Safehouses aren’t normally that expensive… he tried to sit up and felt a pull at his throat.  He tried to bring his hands up to touch, and found that they were restrained, quite comfortably. A quick evaluation revealed that his ankles were likewise restrained, and all the restraints except his collar were padded, and quite soft.

Now this… this was novel.  He spent a few minutes going over it in his mind. He was quite efficiently restrained, undamaged, oh yes, and nude.  A moment’s thought and he could tell he’d been strip searched, but even that somewhat gently.  Now who, in all the people that COULD have done this, wouldn’t have just cut his throat?

“You know,” he said idly. “Out of the sheer appreciation for the balls it took to do this, I might just let you die quickly.  It’s really quite astonishing.”

He knew no one was in the room, but even if they weren’t listening now, they would be recording.  The big question was, what did they want? They might have just wanted him in good shape before they got to work torturing him.  He would, after all. Give him time to develop some fear; sweat a bit… the softness of the restraints was a concern, though.  Either they really wanted him in good shape, or they had some concern that he might use any edges to commit suicide.

Or both, it could be both.

He spent a great deal of time looking around the room, as much as he could.  There was nothing really useful for a weapon… and far too many restraint points. He wondered idly at the floor. He couldn’t see much of it, but he thought it was likely concrete, the room sounded like concrete. It had a basement feel to it, but one covered over with rugs, and paint, and wealth.  Whoever had him was wealthy, and they had excruciatingly good taste.

They also took their own damned time showing up.

When the door finally opened Jim was in a roilingly bad mood. “Took you long enough”

“Well, first I had to deal with my brother’s death and then start seeing to the funeral arrangements, as well as all the other matters, so really, you brought it on yourself.”

 _Mycroft?_ Jim considered quickly, “So, not the terribly professional boys again?”

“No. I assure you; as far as the world at large is concerned you are quite dead.  Very convenient of you to provide a look alike corpse.”

Jim huffed a breath. “I assume Sherlock managed his trick?”

“Of course, but you knew he would.”

“So how did he find out?”

“He never did.  Since I’m not going to tell him, he never will. As far as he knows, you died on the roof.”

“Then how did YOU–“

“Did you know, when we were children we thought Sherlock was quite stupid?  It was only once we had other children to compare to that we realized the truth.”

Jim smiled faintly, “You’re think you’re smarter than he is?”

“I know I am.” Mycroft replied calmly.

“But on the side of the angels.” Jim sneered.

Mycroft moved into view, terribly correct three piece suit, umbrella, not a hair out of place. “Usually.  Even the Angels find a Devil useful now and then.”

“You’re going to try to make me useful?” Jim burst out laughing.

“Oh… Oh no, not at all. I wasn’t referring to you, but to myself.” Mycroft said softly, sitting down on the bed next to Jim.  He reached out and ran a thumb over Jim’s cheekbone. Jim snarled and spat at him.

“In a little while I’ll break you of that habit.” He said wiping the spittle off with his handkerchief.

“You wanted my brother’s attention?” Mycroft smiled, tightly. “Now you have mine.  I think you will find that my attention is a bit of a double edged blade.”

Mycroft pulled the blade form his umbrella, and wiped it carefully with something that smelled of disinfectant.

“I didn’t give you any answers last time–“

“I don’t want any.”

“Sherlock will be–“

“He’s dead, remember?”

“His friends–“

“Are his friends, not mine” Mycroft smiled again, and let the smile become something somewhat darker. “In any event, with Sherlock dead, your people have no reason to bother them.”

“They’ll LOOK for me!”

“Yes, I expect they will, and I have already arranged for clues leading to several disloyal underlings and competing criminal enterprises; it will solve so many problems.”

Jim stared at him and felt the first flickers of actual fear in a long time. “What do you want?” he managed to keep his voice level.

“I believe you told my brother how refreshing it was to find someone worth playing with?” Mycroft nodded his head slightly, “I concur.”

He drew the blade gently across Jim’s chest, blood started welling up behind it, he didn’t even feel the pain until he was making the second cut.  Jim hissed, but refused to scream.

“I wanted a plaything.

“and now I have you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: not terribly graphic but torture

Mycroft had contented himself with carving an ornate “M” on his chest that first night, packing it with something that made the cuts agonizingly painful, and bandaging it.

“I’m afraid that I shall have to leave you waiting a while longer.  Business, you know.” He’d smiled, looking almost affectionate, and walked out.

Jim had never considered that being unable to move, even to arrange himself more comfortably on the bed, was incredibly uncomfortable in its own right; eventually, he was biting at his own tongue to distract himself from the pain in his chest, and the stiffness in his muscles.

Mycroft didn’t come back for almost a day.

“Ugh,” was the first noise Jim heard to tell him his jailor had returned. “Ah, yes.  The other reason I hadn’t considered keeping a prisoner before: the smell.”

“Your decision, Mikey!” Jim sang out, determined to be as annoying as possible.

Searing, screaming pain hit him in the gut, made worse by the fact that, restrained as he was, he couldn’t even double over.

“I’m going to unlock your hands,” he heard somewhere over his gasping attempts to breathe, ”and you are going to cooperate.”

“Like he–“ This time the agony– _cattle prod,_ his mind finally  put together– hit him in the chest.  He felt his heart stutter.  By the time he could breathe again, and the black spots left his eyes, his restraints had been changed, his arms now fastened behind his back and attached by a bar to his collar. Mycroft was redoing his ankles to a walking shackle. None of these restraints were padded. Mycroft removed the bandage as well, and then simply hauled him up and into a shower room, hooking his collar by a lead to the wall and walking away.

The shower apparently turned on automatically. He was hit with sprays from every direction, which he quickly found out included soap. Jim rapidly decided that, in addition to closing his eyes quickly, he needed to not protest– protesting simply meant getting soapy water in his mouth. After a time, the water lost its soapy feel, and then turned off, leaving him standing helplessly in the stall. After a short time, blowers started up automatically. _At least they were warm_.

When Mycroft came back in, the room was dry.

“Don’t want to mess up your suit?” Jim snarled tightly.

“I have no need to,” Mycroft said, looking amused and hauling him back into the room. _Arrogant git._

Indeed, it was a concrete floor, now having been rinsed, covered in what appeared to be a new rug. The bed had been changed completely as well.  Jim contemplated putting up a fight at being reattached to the bed, but one look at the ominous rod Mycroft was twirling in his other hand dissuaded him for now.

Mycroft merely attached his collar by a chain to the wall.

“If you’re a good boy, you get more privileges,” Mycroft stated, sounding amused.

 _Play along_ , Jim told himself, _look beaten._ “Such as?”

“Dinner, for one.”

Jim played at docility and ate the dinner. As he expected, it was drugged. He let himself slip off to sleep.

The days started to become routine, and Jim found out that he had severely misjudged Mycroft.  He would wake him early, tend to matter-of-fact business, and then, usually, hurt him– he was very good at it. Jim gave up on holding back the screams after the first day.

Jim would spend most of the day recovering, just in time for Mycroft to get home from work, at which point he would sometimes hurt him more, and sometimes simply make him kneel beside him to be fed.  Then he would have a shower, and then bed.

Mycroft showed no interest in him sexually, but appeared to be utterly fascinated with how much pain he could cause without overt injury– or serious injury, in any case.

Jim was impressed despite himself.  The occasional absences of pain, the hand feeding, the rare hand stroking down his back without injury– they were becoming a reward to be desperately sought.

It was rare to use pain to such an extent to condition a prisoner; until now, Jim wouldn’t have credited it with success, but it was undeniably effective.  The problem, as Jim was well aware, was that knowing what was happening did nothing to prevent it.

Jim, however was certain that Mycroft’s overconfidence would lead to a mistake.

His first mistake was a small one: he spoke– that is to say, he said something other than a command or an amused direction.

Mycroft was doing something indescribably painful to the soles of Jim’s feet when he spoke–aloud, but to himself– “A new feet, a new backbone perhaps?”

Moriarty found himself trying to laugh; it came out as a sort of gasping hiccup. “Your New Year’s resolutions must be something else…”

Mycroft stopped abruptly– not that the pain stopped, simply that he stopped making more of it.

“Do you actually know the quote?”

“Chesterton? Of course…”

“Hmm.” He put Jim back to bed somewhat earlier than usual for the day. 

Jim had time to think.  When Mycroft came in that evening, he let his breathing get a bit more erratic; let Mycroft see his feet try to move away from him, when normally he held so still– all subtle cues, but there.  When he was taken to the showers, he stumbled, and would have fallen if Mycroft hadn’t been holding him–then he nearly choked himself to death in the shower trying to avoid weight on his feet.

Mycroft didn’t come in any earlier– he wasn’t so easily manipulated– but by the time he did come in to retrieve Jim, Jim was barely breathing, and bruised badly around the neck.

He gave Jim a shot of something and took the collar off for the first time–after he’d secured his hands and feet.  The shot left Jim lethargic, even on top of the asphyxiation, and he didn’t even wake when Mycroft came in the next morning.

That evening, Jim let himself shiver uncontrollably, and when Mycroft rubbed his hand across Jim’s cheek, he leaned into it.  It didn’t take much faking.  Mycroft ended up feeding him –Jim had trouble swallowing–and quoted Chesterton once.  Jim tried to answer, but his voice broke and rasped.  Jim cowered convincingly.

When he showed actual FEAR at being taken to the showers, Mycroft relented, and let him crawl on his hands and knees, with loose chains between his bonds. His second mistake.

Mycroft undoubtedly took it as proof that Jim was breaking, that he crawled; Jim only let himself smile into the tiles of the shower, where he couldn’t be seen. Mycroft put the collar back on him that night, but made a point of making him crawl from then on.

Jim cowered under the pain quite convincingly, but the next night Mycroft handed him a book of philosophy and told him to read it aloud.  It was in Greek, and Jim expected it was an excuse to punish him.  He read aloud until he coughed from his throat drying.  Mycroft actually gave him extra water.

He made his third, or perhaps fourth, mistake– he asked a question: “Where did you learn Greek?”

Jim actually looked up in shock–unfeigned– before dropping his eyes quickly. “I taught myself, until I was able to sneak into some classes.”

“Why?”

“It was something… something to reach for? An achievement no one expected of me, a way out _…”  True enough._

Mycroft corrected his accent. Jim let himself start to plan.

The next morning’s tortures were more bearable, and that evening he was handed a copy of The Iliad, in Greek. He obediently read it, Mycroft swatting him with a switch when his diction faltered or his accent was off.

For two more weeks, Jim suffered desultory tortures, and read various books to Mycroft in the evening. He also studied every inch of the house that he was allowed into, and every flicker or nuance in Mycroft’s expression or reaction.

After two weeks of Mycroft growing increasingly complacent, and having had the ability to move his limbs, to hold objects in his hands, and thus conceal his pick pocketing–a bit of glass here, one of the small blades Mycroft favored there–Jim simply picked the locks on his bindings, and left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're going to miss me...

Mycroft hadn’t realized how dangerously comfortable he had become with Jim.  It soothed a part of him he’d kept restrained for so long, to have someone afraid, at his feet, hoping for a scrap of kindness.  Hurting him relieved some undefined tension he hadn’t been aware of until it was released.

He usually only let that side of himself out when interrogations required his personal attention, and even then, it often took days before he was fit for public company again. People often thought it was because it disturbed him to hurt someone like that– it would have disturbed them.  In truth, it was because he liked it too much.  It made it so difficult to bear the idiocy of the people that surrounded him, when he could see at a glance their fears, what would leave them cowering, what would break them.

Jim had been so much more difficult to read–he was intriguing. Then to find he knew Chesterton well enough to recognize a partial quote while under torture?  That he could read Greek was  like discovering a perfect dessert at the end of a satisfying meal.

Having his favorite childhood books being read aloud by someone had rapidly become the balm at the end of his day.  He was growing used to the pitch and tone of Jim’s voice, and his accent and diction were improving remarkably quickly.  He had begun to imagine putting him to work, reading correspondence to him…

Not soon, of course, but someday.

When he walked into Jim’s cell on his return from work and found it empty, his mind simply refused to process it for a moment– then he made certain he was armed and searched the house: nothing; nothing was missing; nothing was out of place.  He left the house and had his people do a complete restructuring of the security on all the doors and windows, mostly by habit.  He spent that night in a secure hotel room, miserably unhappy–he hated strange rooms.

It wasn’t until he found himself worried that he needed to feed Jim breakfast before he went to work that he began to understand how much a part of his habit this had become.

When he returned to his house that evening, he searched again. Nothing was so much as moved out of place, except Jim.  He sat in his chair and found his hand reaching down– and the absence of Jim’s head; the absence of his voice.  He snarled to himself and took the Odyssey down–they had gotten to the Odyssey, just two days before- and found a note fluttering out at the point they had stopped reading.

 

“To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.

You’re going to miss me,

Jim”

 

He stared at the note for a long while. _Nietzsche. He quoted Nietzsche? To me?_

Mycroft tried to go about his routine, but it seemed that a door once opened is not so easily closed.  He found himself snapping at John Watson on one of the occasions he checked in on him –at his brother’s request, of course.  Fortunately, John simply took it as grief.

He found himself idly wondering if some of the more annoying people he had to deal with would scream as prettily, and why it was that none of them bothered to educate themselves.

He even snapped at Anthea, once. 

At that he decided that he needed to take a few days’ vacation and re-order his mind. He had some of his people quietly looking out for anything unusual, and he tightened security on his home and office, of course.  He imagined Jim would want revenge.  The most likely response would be to attempt to kill him, but he supposed it was possible Jim had simply fled and wouldn’t set foot in England again.

Unless, of course, in his weakened condition he’d been killed by some of his fellow criminals. The weak did not last long in the underworld that Jim crawled up from.  He tried to take a dark joy from that, but found he merely thought it a waste.

It was during the first day of his vacation, re-ordering his mind, that a jolt of fear brought him gasping into consciousness.

_Sherlock.  He would go after Sherlock, and if I warned him… then Sherlock would know what I had DONE…_

He got no sleep that night, and finally sent a vague warning about Moriarty’s heir possibly seeking vengeance.

Sherlock sent a reply that they were no threat compared to the original.

~

On another continent, Jim Moriarty smiled happily.  It was so much easier to track someone’s messages when you had access to their home computers.

Now he knew where Sherlock was…

And the game could begin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friedrich_Nietzsche Nietzsche is the originator of the idea of the "ubermensch": all intellect and pride and dignity... and free of such "slave mentality" as love, mercy, etc. you know, those chemical weaknesses Mycroft sniffs about.
> 
> Jim just took him down a peg with a quote from the philosophy he holds dear, the philosophy that he (Mycroft) is the superior man. so yeah, Jim quoted his own philosophy back in his face... despite Mycroft never having mentioned it.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had a dart hit him through an open window at his small rental.  It was not quite a pensione, not quite a hotel, but it was charming, out of the way, and usefully located for what Sherlock needed to do. Unfortunately, it also had a wonderful line of sight to a roof a distance away. Sherlock was kept blissfully unconscious until he was in another country.

“I wonder, with skin like yours: is that where Mycroft became so fascinated with bruises and scars?” was the first thing Sherlock heard, in Jim’s familiar voice, as he woke up.

“You’re dead,” Sherlock said flatly, wondering if he were hallucinating, but the edges of reality seemed solid enough.

Jim laughed, “So are you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was restrained loosely, though thoroughly, in what appeared to be a room aboard a ship, but there was no tell-tale motion.  He appeared to be wearing something like pajamas. His eyes tracked down to Jim, sitting cheerfully next to his bed. “Why ask me about Mycroft?”

“Because he’s my new favorite, darling,” Jim said with a smile. “So tell me, was he a sadist as a child, too?”

“Yes. Much more so than later.” Sherlock couldn’t figure out why the questions were so suddenly coming up. “Since when is Mycroft your new favorite?”

“Since he picked me up after I faked MY death, Sherlock dear.  I know he didn’t tell you, but I was his… guest… for a little while.” Jim was watching Sherlock very intently.

Sherlock actually lost color. “He…”

“Had me in a lovely room in his basement.” Jim wrapped his hands around his knee and looked oh-so-very delighted, like he was telling a wonderful story.  Sherlock felt sick. _Mycroft wouldn’t have… would he?_ He felt a sick certainty that he had.

“I… I didn’t know,” Sherlock whispered. “Is that why he sent that warning?”

“After I escaped? Yes.” Jim giggled. “He wouldn’t just come out and tell you I was alive, or why he was so suddenly concerned.  Your brother may be concerned about you, but he isn’t THAT concerned.”

“He would never admit to it.” Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. “If our games were ever any fun at all, please–”

“Kill you quickly?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” He reached out and dragged a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Not a chance.”

“I didn’t want–“

Jim just put a finger over his lips. “Of course, Sherlock. I’m not BLAMING you.”  He smiled cheerfully.   “Your brother told me I had his attention; now he has mine.”

Sherlock lay there, wondering how bad this was going to be, wondering how long it would last, and whether anyone would even know he was missing before it was too late.

Jim got up and left the room. A very large man, whose bearing said military as clearly as it could, came in with a platter of food.

Sherlock noted that the food looked good, even served on paper and with plastic utensils. He was permitted to sit up and feed himself, which frankly surprised him. The large man took everything away, then adjusted his restraints to permit him to use a chamber pot near the bed, if he needed.

“Unexpectedly decent,” Sherlock muttered to himself.

“Considering what your brother did to him? Yes.” The man looked at Sherlock rather darkly.

“As I said, I had no idea.”

Jim came in with some books. “Sebie dear? They’re heavy.”

The large man took them out of his hands immediately. Sherlock noted that the books would not have been that heavy for the Moriarty he knew, and realized he was thinner– and softer, lacking muscle– than he had been.  He looked a bit out of breath.

He desperately wanted to know what Mycroft had done, but this could be just from restraint for a time and forced inactivity, and he didn’t want to provoke the man.

“Here you go!” Jim said happily, as the two books were put down next to the bed.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. _The Iliad and The Odyssey, in Greek?_ “My brother’s choice of reading, not mine.”

“You’re going to read them, Sherlock–out loud, in that lovely voice of yours, into a recorder for me.”

“I am?”

Jim just smiled. “I’ve been told my accent is appalling.  You can start tomorrow.”

When he turned to go, Sherlock saw a scar on the back of Jim’s neck. He lay there and thought about what could have caused it, and finally decided: _a collar; that was from a collar._   His attention focused on the collar on his own neck, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight.

Much to his shock, he got a decent breakfast, with tea, and was taken to a shower by the large man. He wasn’t given any illusion of privacy, and he didn’t like the way ‘Sebie’ watched him. He was taken back to his room.  Several hours later he was taken to a different room, one set up with soundproofing and recording equipment. To his bafflement, Jim was there with someone who appeared to be operating the equipment for the rather professional set up.   

Jim waved at him to put on the headset.

“Now we need to do some calibrations, so you’re going to read the same bit over again a few times.”

Sherlock had honestly expected they wanted to record him screaming, but– utterly baffled– Sherlock ended up spending almost an hour getting set up to do a professional audio book. Every now and then, while the other man was adjusting things, Jim inquired about his pronunciation.  He had certainly been talking about this to Mycroft, as he seemed to know his preferences when there was a choice.

“Why was my–“

“Not right now, Sherlock.”

They took a break for lunch, Jim insisting that he eat lightly and foods that wouldn’t clog his voice.

“You can ask now, Sherlock,” Jim said while they ate lunch, with one of Sherlock’s ankles chained to the chair he was in.

“Can I get a nicotine patch?”

“No. Anything else?”

“Why do you appear to have spoken with my brother about his preferred way of pronouncing–“

“He had me read to him.”

Sherlock stared at him. “He what?”

Jim tilted his head, “Not his usual style?”

Sherlock was boggled. To the best of his knowledge he might have had people read correspondence to him, but the last time anyone read stories to him it was Sherlock, practicing his… Greek… he flinched.

“You? Really?” Jim looked thoughtful, “I somehow doubt you were the target of his other activities: you don’t flinch enough around him.”

“When I was studying languages, I would read to him: he would correct my accent.” Sherlock sighed, “I hated it.”

“Well, I have no intention of smacking you with a rod –“ Jim stopped as Sherlock flinched and pulled his hands back.

“Hmm… not so different after all.”

“Our tutors used to do that, also.”

“Well, I suppose he learned it somewhere.” Jim shrugged, “Later.  Time for the first session.”

He read until the sound expert stated that Sherlock’s voice was becoming tired, at which point they stopped, and Sherlock was taken to his room.  Dinner was brought in later.

Sherlock didn’t understand what was going on, but so far it had been better than he’d been afraid of. He just wondered when things were going to change.

The next day was the same, except that Jim changed Sherlock’s restraints to just an ankle chain in the room.  Jim raised an eyebrow at Sherlock’s confusion.

“I’m not that kind of sadist, Sherlock.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Jim smirked, “If you like, I can demonstrate what a physical sadist does.”

“No, thank you.”

“Behave yourself and you’ll be quite comfortable.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Sebie gets to play with you.”

Sherlock had a sinking feeling he knew what kind of play that involved, based on the way the man looked at him in the shower.

Jim smiled, “At least that.  He isn’t allowed to, as long as you behave.”

When Sebie–Sherlock estimated his name was Sebastian– took Sherlock to the showers, Sherlock watched him carefully.  The man wanted to HURT Sherlock, and was protective of Jim… and he was also very likely to start with rape. Sherlock shuddered.

Unfortunately the room was very well prepared to withstand any escape attempts.  Sherlock idly wondered why it looked so much like a boat.

When Jim came and got him the next morning, he asked. “WHY does my room look like it’s on a boat?”

“Because I have an identical room that IS on a boat.  That way I can confuse people about where I’m holding a prisoner, if I have to.”

Sherlock blinked a lot. “That… that’s quite clever.”

“Yes, well,” Jim shrugged, and then winced faintly.

Sherlock read more of the Iliad.  Once they were at lunch he said quietly, “I really didn’t know–“

“Yes, I got that.”

“He hasn’t done anything, that I know of, since he was rather young.”

“Well… the room he had me in wasn’t constructed overnight, Sherlock.” Jim tilted his head at him. “You tell me why he had it.”

Sherlock chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I can only imagine it was… being planned.  For an opportunity.  Perhaps a fantasy…”

“So he was already slipping.” Jim smiled, “And then he had an excuse.”

“It... sounds like it.  I know he enjoyed frightening John, although, once it was obvious John and I were close, he backed off.” Sherlock stopped suddenly and looked worriedly at Jim.

“Oh do calm down, Sherlock. As long as I have you, I don’t need John–do I?”

The threat was very clear, of course: if Sherlock got away, with Jim knowing he was still alive, it meant John was still a useful hostage.

“No… No, you don’t.”

“Good! Anyway I have some business to attend to, so I’m leaving you to continue your recordings.  Sebastian will be taking care of you.”

“I… see.” As long as he behaved, nothing happened to John, and Sebastian wasn’t allowed to do anything. “For someone who isn’t a sadist, you’re rather good at it.”

“Oh Honey, you have no idea…” Jim smiled, and leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.  By the time Sherlock figured out how to react, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not that kind of sadist, Sherlock.” no one ever pays attention to what the man says....


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kisses and violins

Mycroft received a large envelope by commercial courier to his door.  He inspected it carefully: it wasn’t exceptionally sealed or designed in any way, and it was quite flat. He opened it carefully with gloves and a letter opener.  He slid the contents out onto a newspaper on the kitchen counter. It would undoubtedly be a threat.

A photo and a letter slid out onto the counter.

He wanted to recoil away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the image.

There was a photo, printed on glossy photo stock, of a man hanging from his wrists with his back bared.  Although it showed him from knees to elbows, it was hard to guess his identity since he was blindfolded and gagged in the image. There was a lash lying on a small table in the image, although his back was unmarked.

A plain piece of paper had printed on it: Philip Anderson, formerly of the Metropolitan Police's Forensic Services– and an address.

Mycroft pulled up information quickly in his mind.  _Anderson? Oh yes, Forensics, assisted Donovan in  her attempts to prove that my brother was a killer, prone to insulting Sherlock, and  now having lost his job…._

 _Temptation._   Mycroft suddenly realized.  His mouth went dry.  Moriarty was laying out a victim for him, dangling a man who had demonstrably hurt his brother as bait.

Mycroft called Detective Inspector Lestrade and gave him the address. “Take a full squad, and an ambulance. Don’t ask.” He hung up.

He called Anthea and a guard, and arrived on the scene after it had been cordoned off and secured.  It didn’t take long to find out that it was indeed Anderson; he hadn’t seen anything–having been drugged at a bar– and appeared to be untouched, other than minor damage from having his weight suspended by his wrists. There was no sign of recordings, cameras, or clues.

Mycroft went back to work, but the image of the man stripped and bound kept intruding on his thoughts until he finally managed to shove it away.

_Why? Why was Jim doing this? Trying to get me caught?  Did he think I was that weak?_

He sent a query to Sherlock at his mail drop, knowing it would take time to get a reply. His brother could be anywhere by now, after all, going after Moriarty’s network.

~

Four days of routine after Jim left, and Sherlock was becoming bored.  He hadn’t imagined being a prisoner of Jim’s would be boring, but here he was.  The problem was that he hadn’t yet found a means of escape, and Sebastian watched him with increasing interest as he showered. He tried not to think about what the man’s fantasies must be like; he assumed that he figured prominently in them.

It was almost a relief when Jim came into his room after dinner.  “Sherlock! How lovely to see you unharmed,” he sang out cheerfully.

“I don’t know how much longer Sebastian was going to behave,” Sherlock said as calmly as he could manage.

“Yes, well, that’s why I came home early.” _He really did look happy, excited…_

“I take it things went well?”

“Oh yes: kidnapped Anderson, stole some things, had a great time!”

“Anderson? Why ever would you kidnap him?”

Jim laughed, “Because it was fun.  Don’t fret: he was rescued the next morning, none the worse for wear.”

“I’m not fretting; I don’t CARE– he’s an idiot.”

Jim sat down suddenly in Sherlock’s lap and kissed him, full on the mouth.  By the time Sherlock was sputtering and trying to wipe his mouth off, Jim had danced away. “Yes, he is. Anyway, I brought you a present.”

“Why did you KISS me?” Sherlock was staring at him horrified, and trying to get the taste of him out of his mouth.

“Because I wanted to,” Jim shrugged. “Sebie?”

The man walked in, trying not to glare at Sherlock–and failing. Sherlock could tell he’d seen Jim kiss him, and it made him WANT more; without realizing it, he started to move backwards. Sebastian handed Jim a violin case and walked out.

“Come and kiss me yourself, and you get your violin.” Jim smiled.

“That isn’t my violin, and I have NO interest in kissing you.”

Jim’s smile edged into a grin. “It’s not your CASE, darling.  I stole your violin and left a copy.” He opened the case.  Sherlock stared _: it WAS my violin_. His hand reached out without thinking.

“There are hostages…  and hostages…” Jim smiled. “A violin like this? It’s intensely personal, don’t you think?” He stroked a hand over it. Sherlock shuddered. “Now come kiss me and it’s yours.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, then forced a neutral mask on his face.  Fine, if he wanted to make him humiliate himself for the violin? Well, he needed to play along.

He forced himself forward and gave Jim a brief kiss. Jim just tsked. “Kiss me like you play music, Sherlock, or it doesn’t count. Put your soul into it.”

“I don’t have one.”

“If you didn’t have one you wouldn’t play so beautifully.  Now kiss me.”

Sherlock grabbed him and kissed him– violently, biting at him, forcing his tongue into his mouth.  It was anger and fury and hate.  Jim just melted under it, taking everything Sherlock could dish out.  Sherlock tasted blood and tried to pull back.  Jim smiled into his lips and kissed him back, like a lover: slowly, gently, but insistently, taking possession of his mouth. Even with Jim’s blood tasting copper, Sherlock felt the force of personality and emotion, and started to slip under. _It was, indeed, like music_.

When Jim pulled away, Sherlock stood there blinking.  Jim just smiled at him, wickedly, his mouth bloody, blood dripping down his chin.

“Not bad.” Jim licked his lips. “Enjoy your violin.”  He turned and left.

Sherlock stood for a moment, then went over to the violin.  It was his violin, his bow, there was new rosin, and a new set of his favorite strings, still labeled with a shop in London.  The case was new, and very fine– better than his old case, in fact. He stood with his hand on it for a while and then picked it up and began to tune it.  It had sat untouched in the flat since his death.

He began to play, and lost himself in the music. He could still taste Jim’s blood in his mouth.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an early update for Mickie  
> TW threats of rape, violence

Life continued on as Jim’s prisoner, made somewhat more bearable by the violin.  He’d earned clothing– apparently by his continued good behavior– as opposed to the pajamas of the first weeks.  He still wore a collar, but it was only used rarely, when Jim changed out the ankle cuff to ensure he didn’t get any sores or problems from it.

Jim was quite conscientious about his health.

He would record for several hours a day, was eating healthy and finely prepared meals, and was encouraged to exercise within his room.  Jim wouldn’t be there every day, but Sherlock was very glad when he was, because Sebastian’s presence was becoming intolerable without him.

When Jim returned after an absence, he usually brought him things: books, mostly; sheet music, occasionally.

When he finished recording The Iliad he honestly wasn’t certain what Jim would do.  The answer was apparently have him record quotes, while the sound experts were verifying that the audio book was complete.

“Chesterton, I almost understand, as my brother fancied his work. Nietzsche?  And these modern people?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“I have my reasons,” Jim smiled. “Would you play for me? I haven’t heard you play in person.”

Sherlock considered him thoughtfully. “Will you tell me why I’m being kept like this?”

Jim considered. “Eventually I’ll tell you, not now. Suffice it to say, you won’t be damaged as long as you cooperate.”

“You know I expected…”

“You expected me to be BORING, I know.  Doing to you what your brother did to me.  I admit to a temptation to do one thing.” Jim smiled, “But I don’t think I would use a knife. Still, a tattoo would be lovely on your skin.”

“Chest or back?” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself. “Where he cut you, I mean. I saw you wince the first few days…” Sherlock trailed off, having broken his rule to not ask what his brother did.

Jim tilted his head. “Play for me?”

Sherlock nodded slowly.  Jim stood up and stripped off his shirt.  Among many other fine marks and scars, one mark stood out:  a scripted “M” scarred into Jim’s chest.  It was a silvery grey color, not as white or pink as the other scars littering his chest and arms. _There were a lot of scars._

Sherlock wanted to look away but he couldn’t.  The odd thing was, he could recognize his brother’s handwriting, even in this.

“Ash?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Ash and salt, I think.” Jim sat down, without putting his shirt back on. “I do hope you understand I didn’t ask.”

“A larger knife…”

“His umbrella.”

Sherlock forced his eyes away and went and got his violin.  He spent a long time tuning and warming up, as he got his mind back into music and off the fact that his brother had…

Sherlock took a deep breath and played. 

He’d intended to play something by Tchaikovsky, perhaps, but he found himself sliding from his warm-ups into Melodie: the haunting simplicity of it leading him further and further into the music. When he finished he simply stood for a while.  He was grateful to Jim that he didn’t say anything until Sherlock started putting away his violin.

Jim’s voice was every so faintly rough when he spoke, “That was beautiful… but not your usual playing…”

“No. I had thought to play something else, but…”

Jim had a faint glisten of moisture on the edges of his eyelashes; Sherlock glanced away as he told him, “It’s ‘Melodie’ de ‘Orfeo ed Euridice’.”

“How appropriate.”  Jim smiled faintly. “Thank you.” He left quietly, not bothering to put his shirt on again before he went out. _His back was worse._

_Appropriate?_ Sherlock stopped suddenly as he thought about the myth… the underworld, and death, and escaping from death… He wondered if he was cast as Euridice.

~

Jim always had the audio from Sherlock’s room on in his rooms here. Always.

Sherlock didn’t know it, but he sometimes spoke out loud when working through things in his mind palace, and sometimes at night.  Once Jim had delivered the violin, however, the speakers became his own personal concert hall.

It hadn’t been part of his original plan, but  he had carefully collected every instance of Sherlock playing a piece from beginning to end, including those rare, wonderful times when he played something that was just music pouring from his heart.

Jim already had the sound studio:  it had been pressed into service for music.  A few select pieces were released on YouTube, with appropriately constructed video, and a promise of an album to come.  There were, of course, better violinists, but Jim was a virtuoso in his own right–of people.  Marketing a new violinist was child’s play– he could have done it if Sherlock had been half as good.

That last piece, though.  Jim was keeping that to himself.  Besides, it wouldn’t suit the album, given the generally more ornate pieces he played.

So when Jim returned to his rooms after that, the sound was on.  Sherlock putting his violin away, the rustle of clothes.  Sebastian would be arriving soon to take him to his shower.

With the first sentence Sebastian uttered, Jim was running to Sherlock’s room.

~

Sebastian entered with more noise than usual and Sherlock jumped.  He took one look at Sebastian’s face and knew.  A part of him wondered whether he’d finally just snapped? Or Jim had ordered it for making him cry.

“You are going to scream, you know,” Sebastian said, striding forward.

It was ludicrous to try to outmaneuver him, even with a long chain on his ankle he was trapped– he still tried; self-preservation was an instinctive response.

“Does Jim even know? He’ll be upset–“

“He’ll get over it,” Sebastian snarled, and brought his foot down on the chain.

Sherlock reached down to pull the line out from under his foot, but Sebastian was faster, and grabbed it himself, yanking it up.  Sherlock, off balance, had his leg pulled out from under him and fell on his back with a crash.  Sebastian was on him in a moment, grabbing his wrists, and hauling him to his feet.  Sherlock fought like a man possessed, but Sebastian didn’t seem to care.

He had shoved him to his knees on the floor, his chest pinned to the bed, when a gunshot almost deafened him.

In the silence after the gunshot Jim’s voice was cold as ice. “Sebastian, what have I told you about damaging my things?”

Sebastian let go of Sherlock and stood up.  Sherlock just slithered to the ground and stayed there, adrenaline making everything somehow sharp and fuzzy at the same time.

“He HURT you,” Sebastian snarled.

“If he did, it’s my concern, Sebastian.  As it happens, he did not.” Jim waved the gun at the door. “Go to the recording studio and wait.”

Sebastian ducked his head and left.  Jim put the gun down on the small shelf near the door, the one just out of Sherlock’s reach, and walked over to him.  “Are you injured?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock said, trying to control his breathing, which was gasping and erratic.

“Get up on the bed, and lie down?” Jim asked him to do it, using a very soothing voice. “I’m going to transfer the line to your collar: I want to check your ankle.”

Sherlock stared at Jim for a beat. He didn’t seem angry, or hostile, but he never could read the man.  Slowly, he got onto the bed and lay down.  Jim attached a line to his collar and unhooked the ankle chain.  It was only after he walked away to the shelf and put down the keys that Sherlock realized the missed opportunity. He breathed out shakily.

Jim gently but firmly checked his ankle, rotating it carefully.  He checked his knees, and then the rest of him.

“You’ll hurt a bit, and the bruises will be spectacular I think, but no permanent damage.” Jim walked to the door and took the gun. “I’ll be right back.”

He came back with ice packs, and an extra blanket. “Ice for the first night, then we’ll get you in some heat.” He sighed, “I’m afraid it will take a while to find a replacement to watch you, Sherlock.  You’re clever enough to manipulate most people.” He started putting ice packs on the areas most likely to swell, and tucked Sherlock in with the extra blanket.

However flattering that was, he had to find out. “Why did he think I’d hurt you?” Sherlock asked.

“I expect seeing me walk out without my shirt… Oh.” Jim winced. “He saw me cry.”

Sherlock blinked several times, and then flushed faintly.  _Right, I’d made him cry_. “I expect that’s unusual,” Sherlock said as neutrally as he could manage.

“Unheard of, really,” Jim said pleasantly. “The neck chain is shorter, but you should be able to manage for tonight.”

Sherlock finally spoke as Jim reached the door. “Thank you.”

Jim just smiled and left.

Sherlock started going over treatments for Stockholm Syndrome in his head– again.

~

Sebastian wouldn’t be good for much for several days after Jim punished him.  Obviously, he couldn’t be trusted to watch Sherlock anymore.  Jim’s timetable just got sped up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orfeo_ed_Euridice  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwJVwCc_MSo


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW non graphic torture, non consensual touching

Mycroft came into the office and heard violin music coming from one of the secretary’s desks.  He had taken a few more steps before the thought crossed his mind that it was one of Sherlock’s favorite pieces... In fact, it sounded a bit like his playing.  He turned and walked to the man’s desk.

He looked up– _George, his name was George, and he had a cat_ –“Sir?”

“I heard the music…”

“Oh! I hope it didn’t bother you–“

“Not at all. It was a favorite.  Whose work is it?”

The man opened a tab on his computer to show YouTube, and a slowly changing landscape video, while the music played. “It’s–“

Mycroft held up a hand, “Yes, thank you.” He’d already memorized the link; he really didn’t want to talk to him.  He walked away.

Toward lunchtime he had a moment and opened up that video.  It was so much like his brother’s playing.  It apparently was quite popular and… there was another video by the same artist? Mycroft followed the link, this one announcing a soon to be available album. He played it.

Another of his brother’s favorite pieces, one he played when his mood was very melancholy. He could easily convince himself that this was Sherlock playing– the bowing and intonation was so similar– and Sherlock hadn’t played for him in years. Mycroft glanced up to see the landscape scenes replaced by an image of hands on the violin…

Sherlock’s hands.

Shock raced through him. He began digging through the notes… links to the artist’s webpage–quite recent, it having been established within the past two months– and it was all SCREAMINGLY obvious that this was Sherlock.  There was no photo, but the name was an anagram, the biography laced with clues.  He looked back at the video: the commentary hinting at where the studio was in France was just begging for someone to track him down…

Of course.  Sherlock had set this out as bait for Moriarty’s replacement… That’s why it was so obvious– Mycroft blinked and amended that to “obvious to me”– but he didn’t realize it was going to lead Jim Moriarty straight to him.

Assuming he saw this.

Mycroft swore and sent several very firm messages ordering Sherlock to check in directly.  He knew he might not see them for a while, but he had to try. Then he sent a letter from one of his other emails to the contact address on the violinist’s webpage.  He kept it vaguely worded, just in case Sherlock had hired someone to manage it.

Mycroft found himself anxious and ill at ease for the next several days.  He played the two violin pieces several times, and they helped some.  He wasn’t prepared when he got another envelop delivered a week later.

He opened it immediately, and then gasped.  Anderson had been temptation, but this was art.

He recognized Sgt. Donovan despite the blindfold and headphones– after Anderson, he had studied everyone who dealt with Sherlock, and her hair was distinctive–but, unlike Anderson, she wasn’t gagged.  She was nude, tied out spread eagled, and wrapped lightly in barbed wire. The address was closer to his house than the last one–much closer.

He debated, then took his own car to the address.  It was a home for sale, empty, the front door was unlocked.  He found her without any difficulty.

The restraints were not barbed– as long as she held very still she wouldn’t be cut– but any movement was likely to cause the barbed wire to tighten.  He could hear the music–just– from the headphones: they were very expensive and likely all she could hear was the music, especially at that volume.  He idly wondered if her hearing was going to be damaged.

He didn’t see any way to hide a camera in the room.

He walked over and touched her shoulder lightly. She screamed and moved; barbed wire pierced her skin in a dozen places, blood drops appearing and welling up on her skin.  She choked back a sob.

Mycroft never knew you could feel temptation like this as physical pain.  This was the woman who insulted and demeaned his innocent brother every chance she got– the one who accused Sherlock of crimes more truthfully attributed to himself.

His duty was to call for help. 

He wanted to destroy her.

He found himself with his arms wrapped around his stomach, gasping. When he got his breathing controlled again, he got out his phone and took a picture. 

He walked around to her other side and reached down and stroked her foot. She cried out again and thrashed, the barbed wire biting into her leg and across her stomach. She jerked and twitched, unable to hold still, sobbing. Mycroft took another picture.

Then he RAN.

He managed to slow himself to a walk until he reached his car, parked just down the block.  He collapsed inside the car, almost sobbing himself.  After what felt like an eternity, he checked that he hadn’t gotten any blood on himself–he hadn’t– and went home.  He called in sick.  He sat staring at the photo for several more minutes before he texted an anonymous tip to Lestrade.  He couldn’t talk to him.

He got into the computer records and deleted any sighting of himself on the cameras.

He sat in his chair, staring blankly at the fireplace, picturing the scene, hearing her cries…

~

There were no cameras in the building.

There was a long range camera– several, in fact– aimed at it from the surrounding buildings.

There was a laser microphone and a camera aimed at the window that looked into the room Sally Donovan was restrained in. Every scream, gasp, and sob was recorded, along with the identity of the man that provoked them.

Mycroft’s flight to his car, his reaction, his drive home–all recorded and observed by cameras that Mycroft never saw.

Jim smiled happily when he got his copies.

“Got you, darling. Now let’s see how far you fall.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> revelations

Sherlock woke up aching.  When he turned his head he found a meal bar, along with pain medication and a glass of water, which he took without hesitation. If Jim wanted to drug him, he hardly needed to lie.  After a while he started to feel a bit better.

Jim came in quite some time after that with a tray of food that looked a bit more like lunch than breakfast. “Sorry for the delay.”

“Why?  What are you DOING this for?  I don’t understand.”

Jim reached out and drew his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Do you know, you need a haircut rather badly?”

“I’m aware,” he answered. “Why?”

“Because I am in a wonderful mood, and, after we tend to some business, I think I’ll get you a haircut– I could do it myself, of course, but it always ends up uneven.”

Sherlock sighed. “What happened to Sebastian?”

“He was punished, and I assigned him elsewhere.” Jim looked ever so faintly apologetic at Sherlock, “He’s far too useful to get rid of, I’m afraid.”

“I hadn’t expected you to.”

“If he was anyone else, I would have shot him.  I did make that clear.” Jim shrugged. “Now… I have several people who will be quite upset if you try anything; do you think you can behave yourself well enough to come along without Sebastian?” Jim frowned at him. “I did rather leave you to him in my will by the way: you might not like that.”

Sherlock shuddered. “Might… you have an interesting choice of words.”

Jim simply unlocked the line. “Don’t bother changing clothes for this,” he said, and helped him stand up. Sherlock hissed as he put his ankle down. Jim put him back on the bed.

“Right,” Jim said. “I’ll get a wheelchair.” And he walked out.

Sherlock stared at the door.  He stood up slowly, carefully. He took two steps, wincing, toward the door and stopped _.  I can’t run. John would be a target, too, if I could run. It makes the most sense to wait until I’m healed._   He sat back down on the bed.

After a while, Jim came back with a wheelchair and helped him into it. While Jim was behind him, Sherlock couldn’t see him grin. _Watching him decide to stay put had been so funny._

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, they got into a van and drove to a semi-private spa.  It wasn’t the spa that shocked him, or the fact that Jim let him see where he was–although that was terrifying in its implications– it was the fact that they were in England.

Sherlock was put in a hot tub until he thought he might have melted, then worked on by someone who seemed quite competent– if merciless– as a physical therapist.  By the time Jim collected him and they were back in the van, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lie on a bed and whimper.

“He’s awful isn’t he?” Jim said cheerfully as he was wheeled back into his room.

“mrfl.” It seemed like too much effort to actually form words.

“I completely agree: that’s how I felt after my first session with him after I got loose from your brother.” Sherlock couldn’t move much, but his mind sharpened abruptly into paying attention. “Luckily I’d already been through physical therapy before, so I’d flexed enough to keep the scars from tightening up too much.  Still…” he made a face as he slid Sherlock into bed, and locked his collar to the line, “Breaking down the scars I hadn’t stretched enough to restore full motion hurt like hell.  Goodnight Sherlock.”

~

Mycroft didn’t go in to work for four days. He had wanted so badly to take her back home and take her apart.  He hated the fact that he had almost done it.

 He worked from home, of course– he couldn’t stand not working at all– but when he finally went in, everyone commented on how unwell he looked, and after spending a half day in his office he went home. He felt like he had the flu, with none of the actual symptoms.  He wondered if this was what withdrawal felt like.

When he got home he realized he’d drained an entire bottle of Scotch in four days.

He walked down to the secret room in his basement: empty, slightly dusty. He opened the drawer of tools and thought about what he’d done to Jim. He picked up one of the sharps that he’d used on Jim’s feet, and wondered how well Jim could walk at all, and if he still flinched when his foot touched a hard surface.

A sharp pain startled him and he realized he’d cut himself:  luckily, it wasn’t deep.  He spent a great deal of time bandaging himself and cursing the fact that it was his dominant hand.

When he finally returned to work, he simply claimed to have had the flu; people believed him.  When he looked in the mirror he looked tired, even now.

After a few days, he realized he hadn’t looked up what happened to Donovan, so he did.  She was on indefinite leave–her physical injuries very mild, but psychologically scarred.

When he went to bed that night he realized that Jim had outshone him, outdone all his work, over all that time, in one night, with headphones, a blindfold, and barbed wire.

 

_I’m out of my league._

The thought stunned him.  He’d assumed he could handle it, handle Jim, that he was simply that much better than he was. He realized suddenly that he couldn’t predict what Jim would do next.  He didn’t really know what he WANTED _.  He was playing a game with me, like he had with Sherlock, only without the obvious threats, or the discussion of what he wanted…_

He wondered who would be the next target.  Would there be another policeman?  His blood chilled as he thought of Anthea, and he ordered her security tripled.

 _If it was my choice, it would be Sherlock._   Mycroft’s anxiety kept rising.  He sent a slightly less vague message to the violinist’s contact email.

After he got home that night he got a reply from the web manager.  It was a link to an audio book for sale, on one of the big webpages.  He followed the link…

The Iliad, with the violinist’s name as the reader.

_Why… why would Sherlock…_

His heart hammering, he purchased the download and opened the file. 

Sherlock’s voice– calm, unhurried, unhurt– started reading the book in Greek _.  I haven’t heard him read this since we were children…_ Mycroft realized.  He closed his eyes and listened as Sherlock read the work, his voice pleasant, precise, lifting at the points that Sherlock always found of interest…

He realized abruptly that he’d been listening for over an hour. He stopped the playback.  Looking at the audio recording, _yes, it was the entire work, unabridged_.  He checked how many hours of play time, and considered how long it must have taken to record.

He skipped to the end and played it.  Sherlock’s voice, if anything smoother, more melodious– more practiced, of course.  No trace of pain, or fatigue… until the very end, where a trace of hesitancy crept in. Mycroft doubted anyone else would have noticed.

He bowed his head and sent the email.

How long have you had him?

The reply was a video link, with a password to open it.  He played it.

He was looking at a bedroom on a ship of some kind.  Sherlock was lying– restrained, nude, and with an IV in his arm–on the bed.  He looked unharmed except for a reddened bruise on his chest.  _They’d used a dart to take him down, then._

Jim’s voice started speaking. “Hello Mycroft,” he said from out of camera range. “As you obviously can see, I have Sherlock. What you’re wondering is: ‘How LONG have I had him?’– right?”

Jim came into view and sat down next to Sherlock.  He was bare from the waist up.  _He didn’t look very different than he had the last time I saw him…_

“The answer is:  it is two days after you sent him the warning that my heir might be after him.”

Mycroft frowned. _Which time?_ Jim turned, showing his shoulder –and the design he’d cut into it the last night he’d worked on him– to the camera. Mycroft stared at the level of healing, comparing it to Jim’s usual speed of recovery…

Jim held still for the camera, the spiraling design crisp and clear.

Mycroft realized in horror that Jim meant the FIRST time Mycroft had sent the message… the only time he’d gotten a reply… but that was…

Jim turned back, and smiled. “Now the real question is: what condition is he in by now?”

The video ended. Mycroft started shaking… a gasping sob racked his chest, and he broke down.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plots and might have beens and more

When Sherlock woke up again there was a small breakfast, more pills, and a drink by the bed, along with a note from Jim saying he would be late, but someone would take Sherlock to the recording studio.

He didn’t try to fight or even argue with the people who took him to the studio.  They started on The Odyssey, still in Greek.  He had lunch alone, which was odd, and then after lunch Jim came in looking positively giddy.

Sherlock had just time to register that Jim was back, and was almost impossibly delighted, when he practically tumbled into Sherlock’s lap and kissed him. Sherlock didn’t bother to try to fight him off, and in any event it was more delighted pressing of lips and less intrusive than the last kiss.

“What?” Sherlock just stared at the man in his lap.

Jim reached both hands up and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Haircut, definitely.” He got off of him and danced away, leaving Sherlock utterly baffled.

Later that evening, Jim brought a stylist in who did Sherlock’s hair.  He’d been concerned Jim wanted to shave it off or something, but he merely had it styled and trimmed.  It was almost the length he usually kept it; it just somehow seemed to fall better against his face.

He took a shower–he could put weight on his ankle, although it ached– and fell into bed.  It was sometime in the middle of the night that he realized that Jim hadn’t locked him to the bed…

He stared at the door for a long time.

He got up and walked over, ignoring any aches. The door opened at a touch.  There was a piece of paper on the wall in front of his door that just said, “No.” He stood for a long while staring blankly at it, then closed the door and sat on his bed. He didn’t get any more sleep.

Jim came in with his breakfast, looking even giddier than before.  He put the tray down and sat down next to Sherlock and HUGGED him.  Sherlock found he couldn’t muster any disgust, or really any feeling at all except confusion.

“You… seem in a good mood.”

“Oh, you must not be well, you’re stating the obvious!”

“This is you we’re talking about– it might not be true.”

Jim stopped and thought. “True, it might not, but it is.” He reached up and grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss.  Sherlock didn’t resist– he simply didn’t respond, either.

Jim let go and sighed. “Don’t be BORING, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been here for months with very little to do; I can’t help it.”

“Would you like to know what I’ve been doing?”

“Obviously. I’ve asked you repeatedly.”

“I’ve been making your brother CRY,” Jim said, lying down on Sherlock’s bed, with his legs across Sherlock’s lap and his head on the pillow.

Sherlock stared at him. Jim was looking delightedly smug up at the ceiling, and then glancing down at Sherlock.

“My brother?  You know I only have the one, right?”

Jim blinked confusion. “Yes, Mycroft.”

“Reddish hair? Slightly prone to being portly? Always on a diet?” He hesitated.“Fond of knives?”

Jim giggled. “Yes, I know. Yes, that Mycroft.”

Sherlock stared at him. “He doesn’t cry. I’m not sure he CAN.”

“Oh, he did, he was sobbing… It was glorious.” Jim sighed like a girl recounting some first crush.

Sherlock stared at him.  _Mycroft? Sobbing?_   Very shakily he asked, “What did you do?”

Jim looked up at him, pure mischief shining in his eyes. “I haven’t laid a finger on him, I haven’t had any of my people touch him, no one has physically harmed him and he isn’t imprisoned…” Jim swung his legs off of Sherlock and sat up.

Sherlock just stared at him. _He… seemed to be telling the truth?_ “Then how could you make him cry?”

Jim smiled, “Because he’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is… and not nearly as good at hurting people.  I was going to burn the heart out of you, Sherlock, and I would have done it. You never could have stopped me.”

Sherlock felt that familiar ice forming in his stomach.  _This was Jim, the man who would, and could, do anything…_ “I remember,” he whispered.

“Luckily for you, your brother captured my attention.” He smiled lazily at Sherlock. “I could always have destroyed you. Killing you was never a challenge, of course, but destroying someone? That takes art.”

Sherlock pulled himself in as tight as he could, trying not to shake. “You got your wish. Everyone thinks I’m a fraud, and now they think I’m dead, and here I am.”

“Oh, poor Sherlock, I suppose it’s only natural… No, this isn’t what I had planned for the final game.  You would have believed yourself done, destroyed so much of my web as I let you find, and gone back home to your Johnny boy…. only to find that he didn’t want you anymore.” Jim smiled. “I already set that in motion, you know.”

Sherlock begged then, “Not John. Please, Jim, I’ll do anything…”

Jim ran his hand across Sherlock’s face, “I know. I was counting on it.  It doesn’t matter anymore, though.  You were never going to be CAPTURED… Where’s the fun in that?”

Sherlock was shaking. Jim pulled him down onto the bed, twining his arms and legs around him, Sherlock too terrified to resist. Jim inhaled happily. _Terror had a scent all its own._

“John would have been happy, and who knows? Perhaps you could have come to terms with his wife…”

“Wife?”

“Yes. Don’t interrupt, darling.”  Jim pulled Sherlock in and kissed him briefly. “And then after things seemed to be good again, it would have all come apart… very carefully, very precisely… and you would have turned away from the last friend you had, because it hurt too much, because you couldn’t stand the pain.”

Sherlock was lying caged in Jim’s arms and legs, listening in horror as his worst nightmares were being spun out before him.

“And in the end you would have burned your own heart out.” Jim sighed happily. “It’s always best when you can get your victim to destroy themselves.”

“I… would imagine.” Sherlock barely managed to swallow; his throat felt thick.

“But just imagine, Sherlock: I was wrong.”

Sherlock didn’t want to ask, but he didn’t want to anger Jim, not now, not now that he understood. “How?”

“I thought you were the best work of art I could make, your destruction… only to find that your brother was so much better material…”

“What… “

“I think I would miss your violin, you know,” Jim said, apparently changing the subject.

“Would you?” Sherlock’s voice was dry; it was all he could do to speak at all.

“Oh yes, it’s beautiful.” Jim smiled, “Happiness makes a nice decoration, but the true beauty in art is sadness, melancholy, despair, grief… it’s the cake- joy is just the icing.”

Sherlock considered his favorite music: he had to admit, it weighed toward the melancholy. “There are beautiful pieces that are happy…”

“Certainly, and icing is wonderful. It’s just not cake.  Nothing but icing is awful; good cake is worthwhile without icing– put them together, though, and it’s perfection.” Jim sat up abruptly, almost dumping Sherlock on the floor. “I’m hungry.”

Sherlock had never had less of an appetite.

“Eat your breakfast, Sherlock. You have one more round with the physical terrorists and you should be fine, just a bit for the soreness to go away.”  Jim left and almost instantly ducked his head back around the door. “If you’re very good, you get a treat tomorrow.” And was gone.

He was taken back across town, to the pool, and the therapist, then back again to his room, and every time he saw Jim, he was smiling down into his phone with this possessive joy.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wanted you to suffer...

Mycroft sent a message asking what Jim wanted from him.  There was no immediate reply.

He tried to sleep, forced himself to get a little, and woke instantly when there was notification of an email.  There was an embedded sound file: he played it.

Sherlock’s voice read the quote: “The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective.  Gilbert K. Chesterton”

Of course, it was the Chesterton quote Jim had recognized… while Mycroft was working on Jim’s feet.  Mycroft tried to keep his breathing level.  _Was this saying that Jim had done that to Sherlock? Had he blinded him?_   He didn’t know, and Sherlock’s voice gave no clues.

What do you want me to do? he sent.

He didn’t hear from him until mid-morning.  Suffer– but you are, so that’s alright.

How is he?  Mycroft knew as soon as he sent it that it was a mistake. He forced the images of a tortured Sherlock out of his mind.

Mid-afternoon he got a text, not an email.  He’s in physical therapy right now– one of my employees got a bit enthusiastic.  However, they’re a very good physical therapist, I used them after you.-JM

Mycroft checked– untraceable, routed through too many places. _Was he telling the truth?  If so, what needed physical therapy? Why was he bothering with physical therapy?_   He didn’t know, and he couldn’t come up with any answers.

What do you want me to do? He knew he was repeating himself, but he felt completely at a loss.

You will get one more photo; this time, call the yard and get a lot of help. You’ll rescue the victim and find someone there who has been set up to take the blame for it all, just make sure he dies before he talks.

Why?

Because I told you to.

He went through everything else that day rather mechanically.  He got the package in the morning– just the same as the other ones– and looked at the photo:  like Donovan, it was art.  There was a man, nude, blindfolded and gagged, ankles and wrists bound together.  There was a light line around his neck to a small cage door in front of him. _Ah, if he pulled or moved, he opened the cage door. Clever._

His hand was reaching to call Lestrade when he realized it was Greg Lestrade in the photo.

He called it in and went to the location– this time he took a driver.

“Greg? Greg don’t move.” The box in front of him was emitting noise, buzzing in a way that made Mycroft’s nerves stand on edge.  _Wasps?_

“Mycroft?” His voice was hoarse. “There’s a trap…”

“Yes, help’s on its way­–“ He was cut off by a gunshot. Mycroft took cover.  The arriving police, and Mycroft’s driver, opened fire on the shooter.

Mycroft spared a glance to Greg: he hadn’t moved.

Not long after that, the response team got him out. Greg was hoarse from trying to shout to be found, but otherwise unharmed–if a bit chilled.

Unlike the others, he had gotten a glimpse of his captor, and he identified the shooter–who didn’t make it– as “probably him”.  His fingerprints would match a partial taken from Anderson’s crime scene, and one from this one– there were no prints found at Donovan’s.

Officially, it was over. The kidnapper had been found, and killed.  Within hours it would be found that he had a criminal record, and his DNA would match several unsolved crimes in their database.

Mycroft went home after he was certain Greg would be alright.

“Why Greg?” he texted.

“Because otherwise they’d blame Sherlock, wouldn’t they? They always do.”

 _Why would he care?_ “And now?”

“Now you work on repairing your brother’s reputation.”

“Dare I ask?”

“No.”

He began working on it again–he had been already, of course. Every day he got a voice file–with no way to know when they had been recorded, it was more a torment than reassurance.

~

Sherlock found that within a very few days, he had only the slightest discoloration on his ankle and hip to mark the fact that he had been injured at all.

And Jim was deliriously happy–all the time.

He finally recovered enough of his nerve to ask.

“You said you would explain.”

“Certainly,” Jim purred up at him. “After lunch.”

After lunch, Jim came in with a computer and a file.

“First of all, there’s this.” He showed him the photo of Anderson, and the note. “I sent that to your brother first thing in the morning. He was terribly dull and called the police.”

“What did you expect him to do?”

Jim smiled, lazily. “Then he got this one sometime later.”

Sherlock gasped at the image of Donovan tied out– his eyes flashed over the headphones, and blindfold, and barbed wire. “She’s safe as long as she doesn’t move.”

Jim just smiled, cruelly, and opened the computer.  Long range cameras were trained on the house, and on the room Donovan was in.  He heard the sound of her breathing. Sherlock’s face went blank and cold as he watched Mycroft walk in, watched him touch her, take a photo, touch her again… then he’d fled.

Sherlock shut his eyes.  He knew his brother could be cruel–knew about his tastes–and he had no sympathy for Donovan, not really, but…

“It’s an addiction,” Jim said, as if he was reading his thoughts. “Look.”

There was a video playing of someone walking through Mycroft’s home. Sherlock hadn’t been there in ages, and he’d redecorated, but it was Mycroft’s.  The tour took him to a hidden door, and a room….

“Where he held you,” Sherlock stated quietly.

“Oh yes.” Jim smiled.

Sherlock saw the room and the showers– the drawers were opened, the implements itemized. He didn’t want to look anymore.

“He had this ready, you know. I wonder who was going to be his first, if it wasn’t me,” Jim said dreamily, “because I was the first in that room– I could tell. Still, to have built that, had it planned, prepared–“

“I don’t know.” Sherlock didn’t bother to protest as Jim curled into his side, looking at the screen.

“And of course I arranged for him to hear this.”

A video played.  Landscape scenery, boring, with a decent violinist playing over it. It took Sherlock several minutes before he realized. “That’s me?” He looked down at Jim. “Why?”

Jim changed to a different video, and moved forward until it showed Sherlock’s hands playing on his violin.  Sherlock stared, then his eyes went to where the camera MUST be– he’d never played outside of this room…

“Your… Your recordings are unexpectedly good.”

“Mmm-hmm… You’re releasing an album this week, actually.” Jim opened the artist’s webpage. 

Sherlock curled his lip. “That’s not even SUBTLE.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.  Clearly, you are trying to lure my heir and inheritor out into stalking you. Poor Mycroft was frantically trying to send you warnings, without actually telling you I was alive.”

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock felt sick. “When did you tell him?”

“How do you know I did?”

“It was when you came in, so happily… You said he cried…” Sherlock realized.

“I sent him the link to your audiobook,” Jim smiled, pulling Sherlock back onto the bed with him.  Sherlock let Jim curl around him– there wasn’t much he could do.

“Then I kidnapped Greg Lestrade.”

Sherlock tried to struggle. Jim just said, “Shhh… shhh…. He was fine. I told Mycroft what to do. The nasty man responsible for all three kidnapppings has been killed, so the case is closed.”

“You just wanted the blackmail.”

“That, and I despise Anderson and Donovan.  Ordinary people should mind their place and admire people like us, not insult us.  Imagine, she thinks YOU are a serial killer?  You aren’t; I should know– I tried to pull you over, and you wouldn’t budge.” Jim shrugged, and licked up the side of Sherlock’s neck. “Watching your brother fight the urge to take her home to play with was worth it, though.”

“So what now?”

“Now you go home.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of the first story of Odyssey.

Mycroft got a text message as he was already on his way home.

You have a present in my old rooms.–JM

_How?_ _The security was re-done_ … When he got home, there was no sign of anything wrong: the security was intact. He nodded to his driver, and went into the house.

There was a tea cup on the counter that hadn’t been there this morning.

 _If Jim could get in, without leaving a trace, without the security…_ Mycroft had the eerie feeling of the tables turning– he was usually the one who could order someone hurt, or killed, without a trace.  How many times had Jim been in his house?

He felt like it was a dream– or, more properly, a nightmare– as he walked down to the basement.  The door to the room was open, just a bit. So this was it? He would walk in and Jim would be there, with guards, and a gun perhaps?  Would he end his life as a prisoner in his own cell?

He walked in and stopped with a gasp.  There was a body on the bed. The first thing that struck him was the pale beauty of the skin, with just enough scars to show a life lived, a drug habit long gone…

It actually took him a moment to realize the work of art lying in his cell was Sherlock.

He walked up and noted the chest was rising and falling gently. Mycroft reached out and felt his pulse at the neck. _Unhurried, steady_. He looked at him carefully _.  His hair was trimmed–styled, actually– his body unmarked by anything recent, except for a faint hint of a bruise on his ankle, as if he’d been chained… just faint.  A slight shadowing on his hip– again, an old bruise._

Mycroft carefully lifted his hand.  The callouses from playing were there, recent, so he’d been playing his violin quite recently.

His breathing never changed.

Mycroft found the mark from the most recent injection– he’d been sedated of course, to bring him here.

He stepped back, and hissed as he realized: a single scalpel was out on his work table, and a note.  He went over.

 

_“Mycroft my dear fallen angel,_

_As you can see, your brother is entirely unharmed–physically– except for a few bruises one of my men left on him. I apologize for that, I intended to leave you quite the blank canvas._

_He’s a gift. Do what you want with him– after all, what was it you said to me? He’s dead; no one will ever look for him._

_JM”_

 

The note fluttered from his hand and he stared at Sherlock lying there.  It would be a simple thing to close the restraints, shut the door.

_Keep him safe…_

_Except he wouldn’t be safe, would he.  Not here, not with me_. He realized he had picked up the scalpel and he dropped it with a clatter on the table.

He could already feel the temptation.  _He would be safe, utterly safe… and if he bled just a little, it would be less risky than his drugs, than his hobbies…_

Mycroft turned and fled the room, stumbled over his own furniture, and collapsed back in his chair.

He had no awareness of time passing; somehow he’d managed to turn his mind off.

Eventually he heard unsteady steps coming up behind him.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was a bit slow, the drugs still leaving his system.

“Can I get you some tea?” Mycroft heard himself say.

“Can I trust it?”

Mycroft flinched. “Yes.” He got up and made tea.  By the time he came back with it, Sherlock looked fairly normal, aside from a distant look in his eyes. He was dressed– God only knows where the clothes had been, Mycroft hadn’t looked.

Sherlock took the tea; his hand only shook a little. After he’d taken several sips he asked, “How close was I to being the second person?”

“Closer than I like to admit.”

Sherlock simply nodded. “I was paralyzed, not asleep.”

“Ah.” They sipped their tea. “How much did he tell you?”

“Not the details, but the general idea, and I saw his chest– your handwriting is identifiable.”

“You… seem well.”

“I was kept very carefully.” Sherlock admitted, “I didn’t know why until recently.”

Mycroft poured them both more tea.

“He said one of his people hurt you.”

“Yes.  Jim stopped him.  I hadn’t bothered to think how he knew, but of course my room was monitored.  That’s how he got the music… when I played in my room.”

“The book sounded–“

“No. That was a studio.”

“Why–“ Mycroft sighed, “Never mind.”

“I have to go home. John isn’t safe.”

“We have guards–“ Mycroft said weakly; Sherlock just snorted.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock took a breath, and sighed. He stood up and walked toward the door. “Call a car, will you?”

He did. After he hung up, Sherlock nodded at him. His eyes were very dark; Mycroft could read pity in them, which surprised him.

“Pity? Whatever for?”

“Neither of us will ever be free, Mycroft– but you? You got his attention more than I ever did.”

“You’re safe, that’s all–“

“That matters?” Sherlock shook his head at him, “I’m not safe. You certainly aren’t.  You still don’t understand, do you?  He has you.”

“Only while he had you!”

“There were recordings of you and Sally Donovan, Mycroft.  You touched her twice, and took photos.” Mycroft’s blood turned to ice. “And there are full recordings of this house: of the room in the basement; of the photos you took of Jim– he showed them all to me.”  Sherlock walked out. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sat in silence until the sound of a message woke him from his thoughts.

I take much better care of my things than you do– JM.

Apparently. So am I now one of them?–MH

Yes.–JM

I’ll have you killed, you know.–MH

If so, Sherlock is inherited by one of my more vicious people–Anthea as well–and your recordings go public, all of them, including the ones you took of your work on me. It took me ages to find out where you hid the SIM card, but I did find it.–JM

Mycroft’s flickers of resistance died.

So you show up and carve your name on me?–MH

No, you go to my tattooist and pay them to do it.–JM

Jim sent him an image of a very stylish design: J and M, interwoven with a crown.

It’s always so much more satisfying when someone does it to themselves, don’t you think?–JM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be doing my best to continue my update schedule with the next story arc (which is completely written yes, just being proofed)  
> THIS arc was tightly focused on a handful of characters, but the next ones include more politics, more people, and a LOT more sex, yes, so heed all tags and Trigger Warnings, please.  
> (The next update is a single chapter which can stand alone if needed.)
> 
> NOTES on this story: There is a deliberate contrast between the two rooms that feature prominently in this story.   
> Mycroft's home is full of comfort, for him, but his cell is designed for torture.  
> Jim's cell is designed to hold someone securely, but not uncomfortably.
> 
> in this fiction, at this time:  
> Mycroft is associated with pain, and penalty and the body.  
> Jim with temptation, and fear, and the mind.
> 
> and that is deliberate.


End file.
